


Underland

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Series: SMACKDOWN '11 Round Two - Team Discipline [30]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lark already knew Rosie was soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underland

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SMACKDOWN at Goldenlake: fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com

Sounds were loud in the humid heat of the under-land, the land of gasps and groans and screams. They filtered into her and circulated in her mind, beyond the pounding of blood in her ears and heart and core. Sounds reverberated from the cloth, bounding from cotton and pelting her with noises that struck her between the legs.

            Sights were brilliant within the covered canvas of the under-land, the land of sunlight sneaking through weft and warp or darkness surrounding bodies that undulated and jerked. They were set to the backdrop of virgin white in daytime, darkest black or flickering flame-warmth colours by evening; the sights of hills and dips quenched her hungry eyes, but never enough, always wanting more. Sights played before her, gathering behind her eyes and enhancing every curve and rise—the intake of a breath, the indent of a cry.

            Smells were potent within the confined curve of the under-land, the land of spices and cool earth beyond the forest and looms. They wafted in her face and up her nose, tugging the finest memories from the farthest corners of her mind, making them a reality once more. Smells of dirt and aloe and basil and pine and _more_ trapped with her—so gloriously trapped with her—for her to appreciate and adore, breathing them as treasured textures to the weave of her mind.

            Tastes were divine in the passionate place of the under-land, the land of salt and slickness. They exploded over her tongue and washed over her other senses, overwhelming and perfect and _addictive_. Tastes were collected everywhere, a game of hunt-and-seek, tongue dragging and dipping to garner every single one that could be found and then again, _again_ , do it _again_.

            Touches were the court at the queendom of the under-land, the land of softness and scratches and sliding. They pressed every pore and segment of her skin, pressing her to touch _more_ , feel _more_ , trace and tickle and tantalise, safe from the sensation of the overbearing over-land. Touches were ubiquitous and gentle and hard and scorching, the muse for all other senses of the queendom: the keen sounds, the animated sights, the aphrodisiac smells, the taste of triumph…

            If pressed to describe Rosethorn in the sheets, that’s what Lark would have implied—with a blush, a grin and a flippant comment.

            But Lark knew that what most honed her senses in the sacred stretch of the under-land was a sixth sense, one that Rosethorn would have thwacked her for until she laughed, because the foundation for all her other senses in any heated moment with Rosie was love. And love made little flowers bloom in Rosie’s gut until she was ticklish from inside-out, a feeling that Lark knew the woman loved and grumbled about at once for fear it made her _soft_.

            Lark already knew Rosie was soft. No one could hide in the under-land beneath the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! C:


End file.
